Don Juan
By
Lord Byron
Canto X

And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the great Gracchus of all mortality, who levelsWith his Agrarian laws the high estate Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and revels,To one small grass-grown patch (which must await Corruption for its crop) with the poor devilsWho never had a foot of land till now, — Death 's a reformer, all men must allow.

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and glitter,In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter)Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry, Through all the 'purple and fine linen,' fitterFor Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — And neutralize her outward show of scarlet.

And this same state we won't describe: we would Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection;But getting nigh grim Dante's 'obscure wood,' That horrid equinox, that hateful sectionOf human years, that half-way house, that rude Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circumspectionLife's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontierOf age, and looking back to youth, give one tear; —

I won't describe, — that is, if I can help Description; and I won't reflect, — that is,If I can stave off thought, which — as a whelp Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyssOf this odd labyrinth; or as the kelp Holds by the rock; or as a lover's kissDrains its first draught of lips: — but, as I said,I won't philosophise, and will be read.

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, — A thing which happens rarely: this he owedMuch to his youth, and much to his reported Valour; much also to the blood he show'd,Like a race-horse; much to each dress he sported, Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd,As purple clouds befringe the sun; but mostHe owed to an old woman and his post.

He wrote to Spain: — and all his near relations, Perceiving fie was in a handsome wayOf getting on himself, and finding stations For cousins also, answer'd the same day.Several prepared themselves for emigrations; And eating ices, were o'erheard to say,That with the addition of a slight pelisse,Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of a piece.

His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, That in the lieu of drawing on his banker,Where his assets were waxing rather few, He had brought his spending to a handsome anchor, — Replied, 'that she was glad to see him through Those pleasures after which wild youth will hanker;As the sole sign of man's being in his sensesIs, learning to reduce his past expenses.

'She also recommended him to God, And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother,Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks odd In Catholic eyes; but told him, too, to smotherOutward dislike, which don't look well abroad; Inform'd him that he had a little brotherBorn in a second wedlock; and aboveAll, praised the empress's maternal love.

'She could not too much give her approbation Unto an empress, who preferr'd young menWhose age, and what was better still, whose nation And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and then): — At home it might have given her some vexation; But where thermometers sunk down to ten,Or five, or one, or zero, she could neverBelieve that virtue thaw'd before the river.'

O for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh for a hymnLoud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise! Oh for trumps of cherubim!Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim,Drew quiet consolation through its hint,When she no more could read the pious print.

She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul, But went to heaven in as sincere a wayAs any body on the elected roll, Which portions out upon the judgment dayHeaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, Such as the conqueror William did repayHis knights with, lotting others' propertiesInto some sixty thousand new knights' fees.